


Branded

by Zoejoy24



Series: Whumptober 2020 [4]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, Branding, Cutting, Gen, Malcolm Bright Whump, Panic, Torture, Whump, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:41:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27013687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoejoy24/pseuds/Zoejoy24
Summary: Despite his boasting and the numerous wanted posters and hefty bounty on his head, Watkins has been a nearly impossible man to catch.And now, he’s caught Malcolm.And Malcolm fears he knows exactly what the man has planned for him.Written for Whumptober Prompt No 14. IS SOMETHING BURNING? -- Branding
Series: Whumptober 2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947349
Comments: 15
Kudos: 29
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Branded

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is pretty much pure self-indulgence.
> 
> This is set in a as of yet non-existent Western AU that I may or may not be writing starting next month. I was trying to think of how I could brand our boy in a way that hadn't already been done (aka by a cult) when I suddenly realized I needed to write a scene where John tortured him for this AU anyways... so here ya go.

Malcolm pulls against the ropes tied tight around his wrists, cutting deeper into skin that’s already rubbed raw and bleeding. His ankles are in a similarly damaged state, the rough hemp chords chafing and burning, but never getting any looser despite his struggles. That pain, though, is nothing compared to what he knows is coming. From the moment he’d woken up, laid out on the forest floor, bound spread-eagle, stripped of his shirt and boots and socks, he’d feared what he knew was to come.

The memories he has of his attacker are blurred by the darkness of pre-dawn, and the blow he’d received to his head, but he’d caught a good enough glimpse of the man’s face to know who has him. John Watkins. The killer Malcolm and his fellow Marshals have been hunting for weeks, for _months_. 

They know everything about him, by now. How he’d been raised by his hateful grandparents on a small ranch, forced to do the work of three men ever since he was a child. How he’d tried to run away and become a cowboy, but couldn’t find an outfit that would take him because of his temper. How he’d started killing folks—whores and drunkards and cheats—bleeding them near dry, then branding them with a stylized cross to help them ‘atone for their sins.’ The man was proud of his work, writing in to the local papers after each of his kills to expound on the sins of his victims, and take credit for saving both the sinner, and the town, from their misdeeds.

Despite his boasting and the numerous wanted posters and hefty bounty on his head, Watkins has been a nearly impossible man to catch.

And now, he’s caught Malcolm.

And Malcolm fears he knows exactly what the man has planned for him. 

He can smell a fire burning, though he can’t see it. He hasn’t seen anything but the trees around him since he woke, no sign of his captor or any clue as to where he may have been taken. There’s no sounds of a farm or ranch or mill, no sounds of the town. Just the silence of the woods.

A silence that is suddenly broken by the unmistakable sounds of footsteps, crunching across leaves and branches. Malcolm’s heart races in his chest, his breaths coming faster as John Watkins walks into view.

“Ah, you’re awake, eh, Lawman? Looks like you’ve been for a while I guess,” he remarks, gesturing to the bloodied mess of Malcolm’s wrists. 

Malcolm doesn’t reply. 

“Sorry it took me some time. I wasn’t quite expectin’ a guest so soon. But that’s alright, we’re all set, now.”

“I can always come back later,” Malcolm quips, his propensity for being a smartass in the face of dangerous situations getting the best of him.

Watkins doesn’t seem to be amused.

“You know, you’re very good at your job, Lawman. I’ve had to up and run more times than I’d like to admit when you came too close to catchin’ me.”

“Sorry to be an inconvenience,” Malcolm says, unable to take his eyes off the wicked looking knife Watkins has drawn from his belt and is tossing from hand to hand. 

“What’s your name, boy?” Watkins asked, dropping to a crouch beside Malcolm.

“Bright. Malcolm Bright,” he replies, using the alias he’s used since becoming a Marshal. The last thing he wants is any vengeful criminal or their kin learning his family name and going after his mother or sister.

“Hmm. Fitting, smart as you are. Not smart enough to avoid gettin’ caught though, it seems.”

Malcolm grits his teeth, and manages to stay silent.

“Well Lawman, seems like that’s enough talk for now. Best be gettin' to work.” Watkins settles down onto his knees, kneeling next to Malcolm as if in prayer. “You know, you’re different than my usual guests. You aren’t a bad man, like most of them. But, I can’t let you keep me from my work. Now that you’ve been given to me, it’s my duty to do with you what I must.”

“You really, really don’t,” Malcolm presses. “You kill a lawman, Watkins, and this whole country's going to come after you, not just some local sheriffs.” He pulls at his bindings, but all it does is hurt. “You let me go now, you can probably get a few towns over before I get help, and we’ll go back to playing cat and mouse like before.”

Watkins runs a hand over the bare skin of his chest, poking and prodding seemingly at random, and Malcolm shivers beneath the touch. He _tsks_ , frowning down at Malcolm. “I can’t do that, Mr. Bright. I can’t just let you go, now you’re here. Hush now, save your breath. You’ll need it.” He leans over, presses the knife to Malcolm’s chest, and cuts.

There are things you can’t tell from just looking at a dead body. Like how long the torture lasted. 

Watkins spends hours cutting into Malcolm. Dozens of slow, methodical cuts, some deep when he can press into muscle, some thin where they trace along ribs and the sweep of his collarbones.

Malcolm runs out of breath to scream with. His throat is raw, his body exhausted, trembling in the chill of the evening air by the time Watkins stops.

The light is fading quickly when Watkins stands again, walking somewhere behind Malcolm where he can’t see, towards where Malcolm now knows the fire Watkins has been stepping away to tend throughout their time together. 

He comes back with the brand in his hand. The metal is glowing a dull ruby in the halflight of dusk, and Malcolm can smell the unmistakable scent of heated metal. He jerks weakly against the ropes, though he can barely move, now, gasping and sobbing. He won’t beg though, not for his life, not to avoid this. He’d let himself scream in hopes someone would hear, would come, but no one had. He won’t let Watkins take all his dignity from him, no matter what he does to him now.

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t try to change the man’s mind.

“Watkins, wait,” he gasps, voice low, raspy. “Wait, enough. You can, you can still stop this.”

“No sir. It’s too late now. We’ve come this far, too far to stop now. I’ve got ta finish my task. Best stay still now, Mr. Bright.” He doesn’t give Malcolm the chance to say anything else.

Watkins had left one patch of skin clear of knife marks—low on Malcolm’s belly, just above his left hip. Now Malcolm knows why. 

The searing hot brand pressing into his skin is more painful than the culmination of all the cuts Watkins had given him. He screams and screams, and starts to thrash, but Watkins leans down over him, pressing his forearm across Malcolm's stomach to hold him in place. 

The smell hits him several seconds after the pain, and it makes him gag, the knowledge that it’s _his_ flesh that’s burning adding to his panic. He starts to choke, unable to draw a full breath as he gags and cries. It lasts only seconds, but it feels like hours, his whole existence shrinking down to a few square inches of absolute agony.

He doesn’t really notice when Watkins pulls the brand away. It doesn’t make a difference, he still feels like his skin is on fire. He’s sobbing, tears streaming down his cheeks and blurring his vision.

Watkins reaches out towards his head, and Malcolm flinches away with a broken sob. Watkins brushes his hand across his forehead, a gesture that’s so strangely intimate and gentle that it makes Malcolm shudder, a touch that’s more frightening than soothing.

“You did good, lawman. You’re a better man than most. I can’t let you go, but I ain’t gonna kill you, either. I’ll let nature decide your fate, now. Nature, and the Lord.”

“W-what?” Malcolm gasps out, unable to think past the pain.

“I only kill sinners, Mr. Bright, and you ain’t one.”

“You’ll let… let me go?” Malcolm asks.

Watkins shakes his head, gathering up his knife and the brand. “I didn’t say that. It’s time to see how strong you really are, Mr. Bright. Maybe I’ll be seeing you again… but I don’t think so.”

With that, he walks away into the night without a second glance, ignoring Malcolm’s ragged cries.

Malcolm’s chest is heaving, and he can’t… he can’t breath. He’s… he’s tied out, bleeding out, fair game for the wolves and coyotes and bears. The pain is slowly overwhelming him, pain, and weakness from blood loss. He knows he won’t survive the night in these woods. 

Full dark falls fast, and each rustle of leaves, each creak and crack of branches breaking sends his pulse racing, fear spiking through him as he waits for death to come. He starts to see things—eyes, staring out at him, reflecting the weak light of the moon shining down through the leaves. Shapes, slinking in the shadows. 

He whimpers, tears of frustration and fear falling freely. He does not want to die here, alone in these woods, mangled beyond recognition, with no body to send back to his mother, no one to even tell her he's gone.

There's more noises, the unmistakable sound of an animal moving through the underbrush and leaves. His lungs seize in his chest, pure terror surging through him as he stares helplessly into the inky blackness all around him. Will he even see his death coming? Or will it fall upon in the darkness him faster than he even realizes?

He squeezes his eyes shut as the noise comes closer, and he can't breathe, but that doesn't matter now anyways. He can hear the panting of an animal, and…

And then a voice. He opens his eyes, and there's light piercing through the night. He cries out, weak and desperate, as loud as his heaving lungs and aching throat will let him.

"Help! H-help, I'm here. Oh god, please," he moans, praying to whoever is listening that the owner of the light can hear him, will find him.

The warm glow of lantern light falls across him a moment before a dog—j _ust a dog, a hunting dog, just a dog_ —rushes to his side and bays. 

The owner of the lantern is speaking, maybe to the dog, maybe to him, but Malcolm can't make out the words. His vision blurs, the light fading as his eyes blink closed, and he drifts into darkness once more.


End file.
